


Compartments

by tamquamm



Category: James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Death, Canon Typical Violence, Perhaps considered a character study, Trauma, cathartic writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 06:50:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20335888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamquamm/pseuds/tamquamm
Summary: The first time that Q watches someone die in front of him isn’t by his own hand.





	Compartments

**Author's Note:**

> I'm dealing with some shit and this is the resulting idfic I guess

When Q joins MI6, the first thing he is assured of is that he isn’t likely to face field violence. He isn’t expected to ever have to look someone in the eye and kill them right there, not under normal circumstances. And god forbid any other kinds of circumstances. 

So Q goes in, accepting that he’ll have blood on his hands. But only that from behind a computer screen, thousands of miles away and never with a face to associate his sins with.

It’s kind of fucked up --  _ really _ fucked up -- but Q counts his blessings, hails his allegiance to the Crown, and tries not to think on it so heavily. 

But Double-oh Seven likes to push his buttons, and it just happens that  _ this _ is his favorite button to push. 

It’s not like Q can’t take it, but it’s almost sick and twisted, the way that Double-oh Seven won’t let go of how higher and mightier he is just because he watches the life leave his victims. Because he faces the consequences of each and every kill, takes the image down and has to live with it. 

While Q apparently doesn’t. While Q doesn’t live with haunting images. While Q doesn’t have the same kind of guilt that a Double-oh carries because his kills just aren’t the same.

The thing that Double-oh Seven doesn’t understand is just how many lives Q has taken, whole neighborhoods taken out with a few lines tapped into his keyboard. Double-oh Seven doesn’t understand how fucking jarring it is to know how easy it is to take away so many lives, all at once, just like that. He doesn’t get that part.

But Q doesn’t say that. Q lets him tease at him, Q lets him talk. Q keeps up good face, stands strong, and doesn’t let James Bond know a hint of it. Not even a bit.

Double-oh Seven is a talented agent, but even he isn’t clever enough to sense his Quartermaster’s false smiles and kind lies.

~

Q sends a drone raid into the desert.

Five hundred and sixty-seven. That’s how many hits-- kills, casualties. That’s how many lives he reaps in just minutes. Maybe five tops. 

They’re  _ bad _ , they’re a threat to the Crown, they’re hurting other people.

At least. That’s what he’s told, anyway. 

Orders are orders.

And at the end of the day, behind all the cool toys and gadgetry, Q is just another loyal soldier.

~

Compartmentalizing.

That’s how he copes-- no,  _ survives, _ because it isn’t quite coping. Q figures he’ll have to cope with it eventually, but he doesn’t know when. Doesn’t know how, not yet. But that’s not for right now. That for whenever it all blows up in his face. Inevitable, really.

Q leaves his work at work, compartmentalizes it and locks it away until he scans his badge at MI6 and reopens it as needed.

He tries to avoid spillage.

He isn’t always successful.

~

The first time that Q watches someone die in front of him isn’t by his own hand.

He’s not quite sure if it’s better that way, or if it would’ve been better if he had time to mentally prepare for it, to get himself in the mindset.

To ready a metaphorical compartment, get it ready and open in his head, get it ready to close shut and lock it up right away.

But he doesn’t get that chance.

Q knows his kill count, knows it to the exact number, updates it lightning speed with every single job. Q knows exactly how much blood is on his hands. Q knows how many people he killed in just that afternoon alone. And he’d been completely unbothered, completely alright to just go about his day as usual. To go to bed on time and sleep soundly.

But waiting for a train when he watches her lose her footing at the edge of the Tube platform. He watches her fall. He watches it happen in slow motion and here he is, MI-fucking-6 and he can’t do anything to help, to save her.

All he can do is watch it happen, watch the chaos, and watch himself run away like an out of body experience.

~

He tries to compartmentalize it, too, but the lid won’t fucking stay on.

~

Q has never once mourned after a job. Not  _ once. _ His kill count is comfortably in the thousands by now, and yet he has never once emotionally reacted to the deaths from his hands. 

But yet. The second Q gets into his flat and locks the door behind him, he can’t help it.

He keels over. He begins to sob.

Q can’t get the image out of his head, can’t get her screams out of his head, can’t get the shouts of bystanders out of his fucking head.

The station had closed for the incident, the nearest bus had just left, shuttles weren’t coming just yet. So Q stood there, waiting for a goddamn car stuck in London traffic. Stood there while emergency services arrived, the full cavalry in a cacophony of sirens. Stood there while they wheeled her out -- wheeled out the  _ body _ \-- with blood smeared all over the goddamn place, obvious enough. Stood there while they collected witnesses, stood there while they recounted what happened.

His car comes, eventually, but he can’t stop replaying every last second, every last image, over and over and over and  _ fucking _ over again. 

There’s thousands of more reasons he should be crying, mourning, but he doesn’t. He cries for this, for  _ her. _

~

Q doesn’t take the Tube to headquarters the next morning. He hires a car, dodges the question of why. He’s an executive, it’s within his benefit, no one should question it. No one should question it, even when he’s always been so adamant about living like everyone else, so adamant about how much faster the Tube is than a hired car in London traffic.

But Q hires a car that morning and tries to keep face when asked why.

~

His mission that afternoon is to remotely navigate an auto-piloted missile, straight into a Siberian fortress inhabited by troops, enemies of the Crown. 

He follows orders.

He does his job.

Double-oh Seven stops by, teases as usual. He doesn't notice when Q is a little less talkative. Doesn't notice when Q doesn't push back like he usually does, doesn't return his taunts with his usual quips. Q lets him talk and he keeps a calm face.

But he goes home that night with another hired car. 

He doesn't sleep well at all that night. 


End file.
